It has happened before, and will again. Yes, dear reader, the story you pursued is a repeating one. It is not a classic coming of age, or romance. No, this story is anything but. This story is one that humankind struggles to even recognize. Although, every once in a while, some strange soul does.

Perhaps this story is of one of those people; an 18 year old girl.

Perhaps it began in October, in a small home outside of a quaint farming town.

That sounds quite right.

The girl, my, was she strange. Medication bottles riddled her bedside table, solemnly chanting of her differences, her affliction, her troubles. The same troubles, in fact, that caused her to have to be schooled by her own mother. She could not bare the pressures of a classic high school.

Desdemona is the name of the woman.

Nicknamed Des to her small inner circle that consisted of her mother and father, and turtle named Malcom.

Turtles are the only tolerable animals. Unable to scratch, move swiftly, or hurt in any way. The only threat they pose is of salmonella carried on their shells, a very controllable threat.

It was Des' therapist suggested she be given the responsibility to raise it. Her mother readily embraced this idea, however much it terrified Des. Her mom refused to go out to get it food or the necessary materials, so it was left to Malcom's single caretaker.

Daytime was much too nerve-racking, so Des learned to take trips to the store just before they closed. In, and out; as quick as possible.

"Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?"

"Yes, mom. I'll be okay."

"...Alright, if you're sure."

The little black car zipped away to pick up other inanimate passengers as Des walked towards the doors.

Left foot, right foot.

So far, we're doing great. Of course, we're just walking towards the door, but its going well. Small victories, right?

Self-moving glass doors swished open, a whole realm of potential hell greeting the girl. Despite the warnings emanating from her midsection, Desdemona put left foot in front of right.

Filters and food, filters and food, in and out, filters and food.

Des traced the path trodden by her mother while she crept behind the times before.

Food, 1 o'clock sharp, check.

Her steady hand reached out and grasped the cylinder of pellets. She ignored the thought that a deadly spider could have escaped its enclosure and be perched on the side of the container, ready to bite and kill her.

Filters, same aisle, other side, check.

Des robotically turned and ignored a similar thought of a snake hanging on the bottom of the shelf as she grabbed tank filters.

Feeder fish were around the corner, she'd have to ask someone. Having rehearsed the sentence multiple times in her head, she requested a bag of rosy reds from the man in uniform leaning against the wall.

"Can you get me some rosie reds?"

"Yeah sure." he flippantly answered.

The man went about as usual, although with an offhand attitude towards his job. As soon as the girl recieved her fish, she thanked the man, who responded with a short "Whatever."

Time to check out. This is it, this is the defining moment. Left feet slipped in front of rights as Des made her way slowly to the counter, rehearsing and practicing the conversation over in her head.

"Beautiful day, isn't it?" asked the cashier, bright and smiley. Oh, God she was so smiley. That means she hates Des.

"Yeah." Desdemona strained to say more, but her thoughts clamped her vocal chords still. Why would the cashier want to tell a random person that she doesn't like about her plans for the day?

"Have you been to the circus in town?" This surprised the girl immensely. This was not in the script. Circus? What?

"I-uh...what?" She asked

"Yeah! The circus! I'm headed there after my shift with my friends to have a look around." Des translated this to mean that the cashier was belittling her for not knowing the current happenings and scrutinizing her lack of friends. No, that's wrong. She was merely trying to make conversation, right? Maybe this person was actually deliberating a plan in her head of how to follow Des home with a knife and-

"Alright, you're good to go!"

The raging white water of thoughts was hated suddenly by the chirp of the lovely young woman. The customer scrambled to draw a piece of paper out of her pocket and shove it in the direction of the expectant hand. Des would apologize if only she knew how. She didn't mean to be this unsatisfactory.

"2.27 is your change. Have a great day!"

A mere "You, too." was muttered before the items were snatched and flew out the door to a waiting black car.

"How did it go, sweetheart?" Finally, a familiar and comfortable voice graced Des' ears. She paused for a moment, unsure how to answer. Considering her actions, the girl climbed in the passenger seat.

"Great," she responded, "it went great."